


with their flashlights and their semaphores

by wintercreek



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sga_flashfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-14
Updated: 2008-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have found, over the years, that those who would seek to betray us have first betrayed each other - or never formed bonds to begin with." It's the same guy who blindfolded John speaking. "Therefore, before we may trust you as trading partners we must first see that you trust each other. That you know each other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	with their flashlights and their semaphores

**Author's Note:**

> Art included with fic is by Cryptocat.
> 
> Author's Notes: For the Team Challenge at sga_flashfic. Thanks to Zabbers for betaing the text. Title is from Dar Williams's "My Friends." An excerpt from the lyrics appears at the end of the fic; please forgive the indulgence.  
> Artist's Notes: Media used are ink and digital.  
> Challenge Notes: This is a work featuring Our Team (SGA-1) and produced as a team effort between a writer and an artist.

John is getting really sick of these ridiculous rituals. In a more charitable mood (or with Teyla leveling her disapproving gaze at him) he can see how a galaxy with not only Wraith but also Wraith worshipers can't help but inspire the need for all kinds of proof from new allies. In _this_ mood, however, he's mostly thinking that this is a goddamn nuisance and probably not worth the undoubtedly disappointing trade they'll get out of it. He has some idea how long he's been sitting in this dark room alone, time sense ticking off the minutes, probably about 45 of them. He wants to know where his team is, damn it. He wants to stop stewing with his hands tied behind him and his shoulders pulled uncomfortably back around the chair's uprights. He wants to know why the door just opened.

"Colonel, is it?" The voice is polite, male.

"Yeah. Where's my team?"

"They are in the next room. I will take you to them, if you are amenable."

John's so fucking amenable he can't say anything more than a grunt of assent, which the guy fortunately interprets correctly. The light slipping through the cracked door gives him the silhouette of the man cutting his hands free, but not his face. The man steps back as John shakes out his wrists, hissing at the sting of restored circulation.

"I apologize for the tightness of your bindings, Colonel. Your reaction to our ritual gave my men pause. Now, if I may?"

The guy is holding up a _blindfold_, as if all this weren't weird enough, and John gives him a deeply skeptical look.

"You will not be harmed, Colonel, nor will your people. It is necessary, for this next part, that you be unable to see. We will also ask you not to speak unless directly requested to do so."

John sighs and closes his eyes. The fabric over them is cool and a bit silky. Cracking his eyelids open, he can see a sliver of floor below him but nothing else. It's not enough to tell him anything really useful, but it keeps him from stumbling on the walk from his current room to a new one. The new room sounds larger, and there's a fire burning somewhere in it - John can hear the occasional pop of the wood and smell the smoke. He follows until a push on his shoulder prompts him to sit down in a chair - wooden and unpadded, firm under him - and now he hears more clearly the sounds of other people shifting. There's no way to tell who it is, friendly or hostile. They leave John's hands unbound, though, so that's something.

"We have found, over the years, that those who would seek to betray us have first betrayed each other - or never formed bonds to begin with." It's the same guy who blindfolded John speaking. "Therefore, before we may trust you as trading partners we must first see that you trust each other. That you know each other."

A woman's voice follows, saying, "We shall guide your hands to the face of one near you. Examine it carefully, using your hands only. In your turn, your face shall be so examined by another. After a time, we will ask you for the identity of the face you examined and the identity of the one who examined yours. Do not speak until we ask you to identify the face you have touched."

This has got to be the weirdest thing John's ever been part of. Someone's lifting his hands carefully and guiding his fingertips to a face, lining them along temples and jaw hinge, resting his thumbs on someone's nose. He slides his pinkies down lightly, feeling a jawline and a chin. Smooth - not Ronon, then. The jawline is too sharp to be Rodney's, the flesh under the chin too tight. Might be Teyla. Might be a trick. Apologizing in his head since he can't voice it, John trails one hand down to full lips, then feels his way up a straight nose. He's not sure if checking hair is cheating, but figures someone will stop him if it is. Whoever this is has her hair down loose. It's soft between John's fingers and he traces it gently, measuring. Shoulder length? And scented like the Athosian spiced soap cakes Teyla favors. It's got to be Teyla. John lifts his hands off her face and rests them in his lap, hoping to signal that he's done.

A loud crack makes him jump in surprise before he realizes that it must be the fire. He's still tense when a pair of hands take hold of his shoulders and pivot him in his chair. They press down lightly on his hands, a signal John thinks must mean that he should keep them down. Suddenly he's on the receiving end of a non-visual examination.

He wants to ask Teyla if it was weird, his hands on her face. He wants to ask if she knew it was him. He's sure all at once that this is Rodney touching him - the touches are light and quick, and once they've finished with his jawline they go straight to his hair. It's got to be Rodney - who else would think to test his identity by delicately patting his cowlicks and feeling them spring back? There's a pause, long enough that John wonders if probably-Rodney has figured it out, and then there's a hand on each ear. Of course it's Rodney, checking for the slightly-pointed ears he likes to tease John about. John inhales deeply, hoping he'll catch a whiff of the coffee scent Rodney usually exudes, but it's all covered by woodsmoke. The hands disappear again.

"We will ask you now to stand and walk with us, so we may ask you whose face you felt and who felt yours." Blindfold guy again, standing right next to John from the sound of it. John stands and walks with him, trying to pick out by sound where they're going and where the others are. He can't tell.

"Colonel. We are away from the others now, and I will ask you two questions. You may speak in response to both." The guy has paused, so John nods his agreement. "Please tell me, whose was the face you touched?"

John clears his throat and says, "Teyla. Teyla Emmagen."

"Ah, yes. Excellent. And who touched your face?"

"Dr. McKay. Rodney McKay."

"We are most pleased, Colonel. I must ask you to remain here until we have verified that the others on your team have done equally well. Then we shall remove your blindfolds and move on to the second piece of our ritual."

John's stifling a groan and trying hard to project amiability for the minute or so it takes for blindfold guy to verify that everyone's gotten it right. Thank goodness they all have fairly unique features. If this had been a more typical team, mostly clean-shaven and broad-jawed male Marines, it could have been much harder. John makes a mental note to speak with Lorne about this - he's not sure how exactly to address it, as breaking up good teams is never worth it and face-feeling training would be creepy, but maybe Lorne will have a brainstorm. Blindfold guy comes back then, murmuring to John that they will return to the chairs at the center of the room and there he will remove the blindfold. He's as good as his word, leaving John blinking at the unexpected brightness of the firelight and squinting at his team, who are all whole and safe in the circle of chairs. He's right about the chairs: they're wooden, with tall ladderbacks and no arms.

"Now we must ask you to find each other in a different way. We wish to know you and to know that you know each other as you know yourselves. Do not speak of yourself; tell us of the others here." It's the woman from before, who's turned out to be a tall statuesque presence with long dark hair and skin the color of medium-strength coffee. Oh God. Rodney's rubbing off on him if his first point of color comparison is coffee strength.

John's chest is tight, because what the _hell,_ tell them of each other. He's looking for eye contact from Rodney and not getting it. Ronon's smirking, though, and Teyla's gaze is warm and steady.

Predictably, it's Teyla who speaks first. "Ronon is a Satedan, one of the last of his people. He bore scars on his back from his time as a Runner until Dr. McKay healed them."

Blindfold guy - who, John can see now, is shorter than the woman and has eyes surrounded by smile lines, brown in his amber-colored face - nods to her, then looks expectantly at the rest of them. This time it's a surprise to hear who speaks - Ronon follows Teyla, like this is some kind of strange round robin. "Sheppard's loyal like a _frecalshk_. Never leaves anyone behind, always puts himself on the line first. He doesn't know we'd all do the same for him, because he'll never let us."

John's feeling a bit suckerpunched by Ronon's last sentence, and he almost misses Rodney's uncharacteristically quiet words. "Teyla's the leader of her people, but she gave that up for us. We all know how much she misses them, how much she wants her son to grow up knowing he's Athosian. She balances that with us, though, and she's letting us help Torren to know that he's Lantean, too."

Teyla smiles gently at Rodney, who gives her a small smile back. John sucks in a breath, knows its his turn. And assuming that it's all supposed to be balanced, that means he should say something about Rodney. "Rodney is - well. Rodney's an interesting guy, 'cause he's all bluster on the outside and kind of a marshmallow inside. Says his staff are all morons, but he's so patient when he's teaching them something. Says he hates children, but holds Torren every chance he gets." John swings his gaze over to Rodney, a needle seeking magnetic north. Rodney's eyes are locked on John's face. "Says I'm the most irritating man he knows, but treats me right, if you know what I mean." Something's loosening oddly in his chest; John can't believe he just said that.

"John acts like the Captain Kirk of the Pegasus Galaxy - yes, yes, foreign pop culture reference, not important - he acts like a womanizer. He flirts with every woman who crosses his path." Rodney's looking at John again, having broken eye contact to make his aside to blindfold guy and the woman running the show. "He never means it, doesn't even know what he's doing. He never sees it coming. It's all defensive charm."

John squirms a little in his chair and tilts his head toward Teyla, trying to cue her. She picks right up on his signal and speaks. "Rodney is deathly allergic to citrus and is loudly suspicious of all unknown foods. Once one of us has sampled a dish and found it safe, however, he eats his fill because he knows we would not let him come to harm."

"Teyla hates when she's dismissed for being a woman." Ronon doesn't seem to feel the need to follow that pronouncement with anything else.

John thinks it's his turn again and tries to get them all to safer, less-intimate ground. "Teyla's totally addicted to popcorn. Sometimes she'll elbow someone 'accidentally' in her reach for the bowl."

And so it goes, their statements ranging from innocuous (Rodney has been known to growl over his morning coffee; John has an incomprehensible love for golf; Ronon is taking painting lessons from Lorne) to uncomfortably _true_ (John misses his father, despite their estrangement for most of his life; Teyla wishes her genetic gift were more like John's and less what it is; Rodney's never believed that anyone would choose him unless he made them, on a team or in a relationship; Ronon dreams about his wife sometimes, and on the mornings after he runs longer and blames the wind for the wet shine of his eyes) to blatant in-jokes (Teyla has a secret recipe for _b'tamin_ stew that should never be spoken of, much less prepared, again; John has an amazing yodel under the right circumstances; Ronon's best party trick is producing astonishing numbers of knives from his hair; Rodney can walk on his hands, and _has_ when necessary).

John's wondering if there's some kind of mind-altering herb burning on the fire, because he can't imagine why they're saying some of the things they're saying unless they've been assisted in lowering their inhibitions. He's feeling mostly okay, though, protective of his team but not outright threatened, sprawled in his chair rather than obviously alert. Rodney's casting little glances toward John's hands, checking whether they're fisted (trouble), splayed over John's thighs (relaxation) or folded over John's belly (suspicion). John's surprised to find himself wondering if Rodney will explain his hand code as his next contribution to the sharing, when it's suddenly over.

"We are satisfied. It is apparent that you know each other very well, better than you have revealed with your words, and this is as it should be. We may tell you now that the _s'ny_ we cast in to our fire has loosened your tongues" - and John _knew_ there had to be something like that at work - "and now we may offer you the tea to counter it."

"Come, take your evening meal with us as friends. We will drink tea together now that we know each other." The woman gestures with her hands for them to stand and follow her.

John should be angry at this, but something, probably _the drug_, is stopping him from feeling it. After all they've shared about themselves and each other, their hosts had better be planning to share about themselves in return. Not that John particularly cares to listen, but it would be only fair.

The team sits down around a large circular table; they're supposed to intersperse themselves with the people from this world, but John won't allow it. He plants himself next to Rodney and places a hand on Teyla's upper arm when she starts to move away. Ronon, quick on the uptake as always, sits on Rodney's other side. John thinks for just a second about this pattern they have formed, how their seating order reflects the circle they made earlier. Then he puts the circle back out of his mind and turns to the business at hand. Four of the natives, for the four of the team. Blindfold guy turns out to be named T'ddy and the woman is named L'anor.

T'ddy pours tea for all of them, which John drinks too enthusiastically, burning his tongue. After his nod, Rodney sips his tea as well. Sitting between Teyla and Ronon, he and Rodney are effectively walled off from conversation with anyone else. That's about how John wants it. He's done enough talking for today. Teyla steps up to the task, graceful as always, and Ronon surprises John by engaging L'anor in a lively discussion of trust rituals. Turns out that Sateda had its own version of this sort of test.

John never gets the names of the two across the table. He worries briefly that they might take offense at his taciturnity, then concludes that Teyla would have pinched him or something if that was the case. Rodney is a comforting presence in his peripheral vision and Teyla smells like the antidote tea because John's spilled some on her sleeve. Dinner is some kind of roast beast and root vegetables, for which Teyla's just secured a trade. They look like beets, taste like apples, and mash like potatoes. John's not sure beet-apple-potatoes are worth the secrets they've poured out in to the waiting ears of these people, even if none of those secrets were truly tactical in nature.

Later, after the tea takes full effect, after a dessert of some kind of nut and fruit bar with what Rodney swears are chocolate chips in it, John's closer to his usual offworld state of taut alertness. He thinks how lucky they are that it was _them_, his team, that faced this ritual. Everyone on Atlantis lives in each others' pockets, yes, but not everyone lives in each others' lives like his team does. They're more than co-workers; they're family. He knows them each better than his own brother, not that _that_ is a surprise to anyone, and they know him in ways he'd never trust to anyone else. He thinks he would know them anywhere, would find them under all circumstances, could forgive them anything. He thinks that no matter what he may become, no matter what he will have to do, no matter all the myriad ways he could lose himself, his team will always find him.

Rodney's insisting that Teyla revise the trade to include what _has_ to be chocolate, or close enough to it, and Teyla is laughingly scolding him. T'ddy approaches John, offering a half-bow. "Colonel. You were silent at our evening meal."

"Yeah," John replies, stretching the word. "I don't take kindly to being drugged and asked to spill secrets about my team. Not that I don't appreciate your discretion in only asking us about each other - had we been required to give away information about our home, sensitive information, we would have had to decline to participate." John's not sure how they would have accomplished that, but knows they would have found a way, knows they would all protect Atlantis.

"We appreciate that, Colonel. And as I said, we wished only to know that you knew each other. Did you wish to ask me anything, that you might know me?"

"Nah. I'm good." And John is, because T'ddy and L'anor _did_ respect certain boundaries in their request to the team, and Ronon _did_ point out that this is hardly an unreasonable demonstration to ask for, even if the herb-drugging was taking it too far. He makes unmemorable small talk with T'ddy until Teyla signals that they can leave.

John's tracking the movements of everyone present out of habit, scanning nooks and doorways as they proceed down the hall to the foyer where his team was separated upon arrival. He sees Rodney carrying a small sack of likely-chocolate, clutching it so tightly you'd think it was gold or naquadah.

Ronon takes point as they step in to the night, Rodney right behind him. Teyla moves to John's side and they walk in companionable silence through the swishing knee-high grass. "John?" she says finally, her voice lifted in implied inquiry.

John shakes his head, grateful she can only half see him in the starlight. "That was - weird. I know, I know, 'not unreasonable,' 'plenty of worlds do this.' Sounds like I should be surprised we haven't encountered it before. But Teyla, I don't, you know, like to - well. There are things about me, things I've said and done, that I'm not proud of."

"John. You know we would not speak of such things. We did not do so this evening."

"It's not that. It's just that I-"

"John." Teyla's got a hand on his arm, silencing him. "It is all right. We do not need to weigh every part of each other to know who we are."

John's afraid they're about to have a moment. He turns to face Teyla and inclines his head, hoping she'll recognize the Athosian gesture. He's interrupted, though, when Ronon tackles him sideways.

"Time to go home," Ronon informs John.

"Yeah, okay." John holds a hand up and Ronon levers him out of the grass. "What was that, exactly?"

Ronon shrugs. "Wanted to. Come on." He slaps John on the back and strides over to and through the gate. Teyla follows him.

Rodney, standing at the DHD, looks expectantly at John. "Well?"

John's not really prepared for the gratefulness that hits him sometimes, the disbelief that he has these people. He doesn't know how to say it, though, so he throws an arm around Rodney's shoulders and simply says, "Let's go home, buddy."

They step through across the event horizon together, and the wormhole winks out.

  

  

_Art by Cryptocat for the sga_flashfic Team Challenge._


End file.
